Purgatory
by chronicler-of-knuckles
Summary: Is Captain H.M. Murdock dead? He thinks so.


It so was dark.  
It so was cold.  
It so was quiet.

It was the three things his fuzzy mind could decipher, for certain, about his surroundings.

Dark.  
Cold.  
Quiet.

Like nothing was there. Nothing at all. As if the whole world was just a figment of his imagination.

Well, now there was an idea!

Shucks, if this the reality they wanted him to face, let them have it! He was going back to fantasy land. And happy to do it.

Closing his eyes, he mustered that vast imagination he was always being told to lock away. But nothing came to him. No world, no VA, no bad guys totin' guns, no billionaires, no movie stars, nor professors, nor skippers, not even Maryanne... most noticeably, no guys!

Only the inside of his eye lids...

Dark.  
Cold.  
Quiet.

He suddenly wished he could hear his heart.

That was funny. He could always hear his heart. It was, at times, the only thing that kept him sane back there, back in those damn jungles... Okay, maybe sane isn't the right word. Less than stark, raving, naked, yanking hair out of scalp mad? Skip sane and/or less than mad. The thumping of his heart, the continues, if a bit erratic, beat of his heart was, at times, the only proof he had that he was still alive.

He would of tilted his head to one side, contemplating that thought... if he could move.

Was he dead?

It made sense. Dark... Cold... Quiet... theses were dead things. He couldn't feel. He couldn't hear. He couldn't speak. There was nothing. absolutely nothing.

Sure as hell felt like dead to him.

Well, shit, you'd of thought someone would of told him! Damn, fucked up bureaucrats!

He felt better with that answer. Facey had told him about death. Not that they kid had any personal experience, but he had that church learnin' that always taught little kids all about death 'fore they ever taught them about living.

Kinda screwed up if he thought about it too long.

But where were the angels and the trumpets and the poofy clouds and the big, gold gate and, hey, were was everything else that made up heaven?

He blinked.

Maybe he wasn't in heaven.  
Maybe he went to hell.

So, where were the soul consuming fires and the ouches and the agony. What? Were the demons and devil and shit gonna torture him all eternity with boredom?

Purgatory!

That's it! This was Purgatory!

They hadn't decided if he was worth saving or not.

Damn, fucked up bureaucrats. Could never decide what to do with him. Always screwin' him over. Ever since he was a kid, skin and bones, found beaten and locked in the closet by his very own ol' man. Even in the VA... is he really insane? Or is he just faking it? Did he really know nothing about the A-Team? Or was he the master of hush ups?

And now he was dead!

You'd of thought they'd of gotten their shit together in the after-fucking-life.

Wasn't like it'd be a tough decision. There were only two directions to go, a fifty-fifty split, six-or-one-half-dozen sort of thing. Up or down. Come on already! Flip a coin! Catch a fly by the toe! Make a goddamned decision!

There was a flicker.

Hell, ask him if they weren't sure. There was no way in hell anyone in their right mind would send him to heaven.

The flicker grew to a steady sliver. Dust floated through the air.

He was a killer! Not just a wartime killer. He had done things that even the Colonel didn't know about. Shit, he was CIA! Said right there in the employment contract "Paid biweekly, plus retirement benefits supplied by Hell as prescribed by Satan: see sect. 678, paragraph 6d for details."

The sliver suddenly burst into a blinding bright light that consumed all nonexistence above him.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Hurry! Give me the oxygen!"

"Is he..."

"He's fine!... Right... Colonel..."

Voices?

A shadow blocked the light. Something was put over his face. Something cool, refreshing, soothing blew through his body, rushing feeling through out.

"Come on, Murdock." encouraged the shadow. "Don't give up on us."

He opened his eyes.

Leaning over Purgatory, gazing down at him from the light, were three angels.

Slow assed bureaucrats had finally made their decision.

"Shit." he croaked.

The Colonel frowned. Leaning in close, putting his ear near his Captain's face, he wanted to know "What was that?"

But they were interrupted by the angels from above. "Hannabal?"

He looked up at his men. "He's still with us. Damn bastards buried him alive, but they couldn't kill him."

"Don't mean I ain't gonna kill them!" BA snarled, turning back to the bad guys that laid about the cemetery in varies degrees of beaten.

A mumble drew Hannabal's attention back to his Captain.

"Screwed up all over again, damn, fucked up bureaucrats." Murdock struggled to be heard through the oxygen mask. "Sent me in the wrong direction." he managed, before his eyes fluttered close and he passed out.

The Colonel leaned back again, his brow scrunched up in thought. Then he smirked as understanding came. "You're not dead, Captain." he assured. "I won't let hell have you." That said, he started work on what was left of the box's top, calling to Face and BA "Come on. Help me get him out of this damn coffin."

Purgatory The End


End file.
